Page 96 of Veiled Flames
Shifting my arm, I let the rope slip, and my hand barely grabs it before it drops to the ground. Again, I curse myself for jumping before the rope was secured.
Holding the rope in one hand, the spike with my other, I can no longer stroke the dragon’s body. Instead, I press my cheek against his scales, remembering how Princess Rosomon calmed Surath that day in the field. That day was the first time I’d seen anyone approach a dragon with such ease. At least someone who was not already bonded.
But it worked that day. Not only for Rosomon, but for the others who copied her approach.
And it seems to be working for me now. Against my cheek, against my ear, I can sense the dragon’s demeanor changing, almost as if he’s speaking to me. This dragon wants to fly. He knows he needs my help to do it, and he’s desperate to join the dragons perched ahead of us.
This must be the connection the masters have described. How the dragons are able to communicate with their riders through feelings. And I’m not yet even mounted.
Pulling up as far as I can, I position the rope in my other. I can’t see the spikes atop his neck from this angle, but going on instinct, I ask Othrix to guide the rope’s path as I fling the loop overhead.
The dragon shifts.
I fear he’s about to buck me off, but the rope becomes taut. The loop caught! If I didn’t know better, I’d think the dragon guided a spike toward my rope. That’s impossible. Not only is he facing the wrong direction, he can’t see.
I breathe for a few seconds before starting to climb, pulling myself up, using both the rope and my grip on the spike.
I pause again, pressing my face against the dragon. This angle is awkward and the spike’s hard to hold. Vowing to be brave, to trust my instincts, I let go of the spike so I can grip the rope with both hands.
“Use your legs,” Treacher shouts. “He won’t mind.”
Sensing that Treacher’s advice is sound, I press my boots against the side of the dragon’s powerful body as I climb up to the base of his neck.
The shrieks of the unmatched dragons stop. Or perhaps they stopped some time ago and I’m only just noticing the utter silence in the canyon. The only things I can hear are the dragon’s smoke-filled breathing, my heartbeat, and the fluttering of his scales as he shifts.
My body shakes as I recognize how high I am off the ground. The dragon’s back rises close to two men’s heights beyond most others in the enclaves. The only dragon larger is the behemoth, and no one dares approach that beast. According to the masters, it’s been more than fifty years since anyone has been crazy enough to go within a furlong of where the behemoth is penned.
When I arrived at camp, my candidate class were warned to never venture near there. We were warned that over the centuries, dozens of riders, some dragon masters even, have been burned alive, or torn to shreds by the behemoth.
All dragons are dangerous. All dragons must be respected, but the behemoth is in a category of its own.
And thinking of that dangerous beast won’t help with my mounting.
Treacher has assured me that I’ll naturally find the correct position on the saddle and my mounting flap will open.
I sling my leg over the beast, so that I’m facing his front. Holding on with my thighs, I let out slack on the rope as I edge along the ridge of the dragon’s spine toward his saddle. I soon feel the handles as they slip under my thighs.
I still feel certain this dragon is male, even though dragons lack visible genitals. All jokes aside, the masters and other riders have assured us that the pommel I’m about to lodge in my ass isn’t a sexual organ. There is no part of the human anatomy to compare to a dragon’s pommel, and all dragons, male or female, have them.
The pommel strikes my backside.
I shift, letting it edge inside my flap. It grazes my flesh, and I pull forward again. It’s warmer and smoother than the other parts of the dragon, and excitement dilutes my remaining fear.
This is it. Successful or not, I’m about to attempt a mounting.
I’ve already accomplished far more than I did during either of my previous attempts. The first time I was granted the opportunity, the dragon threw me off before I even reached her back. And the second dragon tossed me, as I was trying to get my legs astride her.
I smashed against the stone wall, breaking my ribs, and then she pinned me under her talons until handlers rushed in to distract her with supper—offering her three cows and a sheep in exchange for my life.
Remembering the rope, I coil it up and secure it on another spike, so it won’t be lost in the wind, and will be ready to help me dismount—if I survive.
Shifting back, I feel again for the pommel. It slides into my flap and strikes my body. I brace for pain.
But remembering my training, I tell my body to relax. According to the masters and other riders, even though this dragon is huge, the pain of mounting should not be unbearable. Not if I relax.
Drawing long breaths, I take hold of the handles at the front of his saddle. I can see why Treacher saved this beast for me. The tallest at camp, I’m the only one with a chance to reach these handles while mounted.
Urging myself to relax, I slowly sit back, and the pommel nudges my asshole.
